


Schaumburg Abbey

by Siria



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 20:49:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17884976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: When a young man is born to be a hero, some adventure must happen his way, no matter how quiet the market town into which he is born. So, when young Mr Ryan Bergara receives an invitation to spend the season in Bath, it is inevitable that the dashing Mr Madej catch his eye—and that Ryan is soon caught up in the mysteries surrounding Schaumburg Abbey.





	Schaumburg Abbey

**Author's Note:**

> A _Northanger Abbey_ / _BFU_ mash-up pastiche, because I'm nothing if not predictable. Thanks to trinityofone for humouring me and for betaing this.

No one who had ever seen Ryan Bergara as a child would have thought him born to be a hero. His father was neither a man of great consequence nor of great poverty, being the apothecary of the prosperous market town of L—— in ——shire who had had the good fortune to succeed to a comfortable inheritance not long after Ryan was born. His mother was a woman whose sense was as strong as her constitution, and who succeeded in raising a fine family without succumbing to a single tubercular fit or the temptation of confining any of her offspring to the attic.

Although Ryan could not quite bring himself to lament the fact that his home was a happy one, nor could he prevent himself from longing for more adventure and mystery than a small town could readily provide. He played at swords with his brothers and pretended at being a famous knight; he slid down the bannister as if he were an infamous pirate making his escape from prison; and as he grew older, each novel he read made him long to experience heroic feats—real passion—the ineffable and the strange.

It was in every hope of meeting such events that Ryan travelled to Bath for the first time. He went as the companion of Mrs Millan, a neighbour of the Bergaras who had no family of her own and an unfortunate inclination to gout.

"I have a mind to go take the waters for the season," she told Mr and Mrs Bergara, "and who could I rely on be so dutiful an attendant as young Ryan? The spirits have me quite convinced that it can be no one else."

If providing to the needs of a gouty widow with claims to clairvoyance was not quite the circumstance under which Ryan had first hoped to enter into society, it was yet a chance which he would not otherwise have enjoyed. And so he accepted Mrs Millan's invitation, and within the sennight found himself in the Upper Rooms with as many dance partners listed on his card as he could ever have hoped for, thanks to the numerous members of Mrs Millan's acquaintance.

Indeed, his card probably contained the names of more ladies and gentlemen than Ryan had ever stood up with in the whole course of his life, for while L—— was a pleasant place to reside, its society was limited. The same half dozen or so boys and girls with whom Ryan had played with horse chestnuts as a child, and groaned with over learning his letters, comprised the same set with whom he had taken lessons from the travelling dance master, and given and received the first careful kisses. Had Mrs Millan not invited him to accompany her, Ryan would eventually have chosen a spouse from one of their number, but such a marriage could never had laid claim to being a _grand romance_. After all, from ages five to twelve Sally had had to breathe through her mouth, one or both nostril being invariably blocked, while Charles could sadly never be brought to wash his feet.

Bath, on the other hand, bid fair to offer as much variety and interest in prospective matches as a young man of twenty could hope for on his first debut into real society. One partner, however, pleased Ryan more than the rest; his name was Shane Madej. He was about six or seven and twenty, very tall, with a lively eye, and if not quite handsome, then very near it. He danced with enthusiasm more than skill, and when they sat down to tea, he talked with spirit and an archness that Ryan found pleasant, even if he did not always understand it.

Mr Madej was interested to hear that Ryan had never before been to Bath, and declared his determination that Ryan have the proper experience of any eligible young man on his first visit to that town. "I should be very negligent if I did anything but," he said, setting his features into a kind of simpering obsequiousness which looked very odd on his face. "Tell me, sir, have you been long in Bath?"

"About a week, sir," Ryan replied, trying not to laugh as he accepted a cup from him.

"Really!" Mr Madej cried in evident astonishment as he poured another cup for himself.

"I cannot think why you should be surprised," Ryan said.

Mr Madej leaned a little closer. "It seemed the thing to say," he said in conspiratorial tones. He straightened back up and said, "And what have you made of this weather lately?"

Ryan blinked in confusion and confessed that he had not noticed the weather as being anything but what one should commonly expect of this part of England at this time of year.

"Excellent, well played," Mr Madej said in his usual voice. "Now we may be rational again, and you shall have the enjoyment of writing home to your friends, telling them that on Friday you went to the Upper Rooms, wore your blue coat and appeared to much advantage, but danced with a strange, off-putting man who distressed you by his nonsense."

Ryan laughed, and declared that he would do no such thing, and willingly accepted Mr Madej's invitation to stand up with him again for the next dance. When the assembly closed, Ryan left it with a spring in his step; and, as he readied himself for bed that night, it was with the bewildered but happy sense that he had just experienced his first proper flirtation.

 

* * *

 

Ryan expected—hoped—to encounter Mr Madej at the pump-room the next morning, but he was neither there nor at the theatre that evening. Ryan hoped to be more fortunate the morning after that, when the fine weather turned the whole town out to promenade, to see and be seen in its finery. He dutifully accompanied Mrs Millan to take the waters, to attend morning lounges and drive out in a curricle, and though he kept faithful lookout, never once did he spot someone of Mr Madej's spare height. There were many others to see, of course, fine ladies and handsome gentlemen both, and several of them Mrs Millan pointed out to him as eligible matches. Yet none of them quite drew Ryan's eye in the way that Mr Madej had—and it seemed that Mr Madej had quitted Bath.

Refuge from this disappointment was to be found, though, in the town's lending library. It boasted a stock far larger than what could be found on Ryan's father's bookshelves, and to Ryan's particular delight, many of these were novels of a kind that Mr Bergara would have disdained to purchase. On rainy mornings, Ryan was content to shut himself up in the drawing room of the house that Mrs Millan had taken on M—— Street, leaving her to alternately pick at her embroidery and doze in front of the fire while he sat and read.

He had consumed _The Castle of Wolfenbach, Mysterious Warnings, The Necromancer of the Black Forest,_ and _Horrid Mysteries_ with wide eyes and a sensation behind his breastbone that he could not properly identify as either a thrill or a fear. Could there really be so much wickedness in the world—so many crumbling ruins that housed bloodthirsty blackguards—so many spectres and wraiths whose cold fingers sought ceaselessly for human flesh? Ryan was certain that his mother would scold him for his lack of plain good sense—and yet would she judge him so harshly if she knew just how delightfully horrid _Udolpho_ was? (He had just reached the part with the black veil, and was quite convinced that behind it lay nothing less than a skeleton, Laurentina's skeleton, and that when Emily lifted the veil she would be confronted by both Laurentina's mortal remains and her unhappy ghost.)

However, as diverting as these tales could be, there was nothing in them so satisfying to Ryan as the feeling of walking into the Upper Rooms the next week and spotting Mr Madej not three yards away. He looked as lively as ever, in a green coat and with his hair in a kind of fashionable disarray, and he was talking animatedly with a small group of smartly dressed young ladies. Ryan helped Mrs Millan to a seat in a spot where she could easily see and judge people's attire with genial complacency, and looked up just in time to catch Mr Madej's eye. His smile of recognition made Ryan's cheeks flush in a way that felt entirely new.

Yet before Ryan could approach and address him, the orchestra struck up a fresh dance and Mr Madej led one of his party out onto the floor with an apologetic little bow of his head towards Ryan. The pang of disappointment that Ryan felt at this was perhaps a little stronger than was warranted by the sight of a man whom he had met but once in his life partake in a country dance with someone else.

The refreshments were plentiful, the music spirited, and Ryan's dance card quickly filled for the evening—but as none of the names that appeared upon it were that of Mr Madej, he was inclined to find the whole event rather dull.

The carriage ride back to M—— Street, however, furnished him with rather more by way of entertainment, for Mrs Millan had spent her evening in the profitable gathering of gossip about many of their acquaintances and their families—including the Madejs.

"Did you learn much about them?" Ryan said, brushing at an imagined spot on his breeches and striving for nonchalance.

"Oh yes, my dear," Mrs Millan said complacently, "though I'm sure I cannot remember it all now. But they are from ——shire, a very good kind of people, and very rich. Mrs Madej was a Miss Drummond, you know, and her father settled a large sum on her when she married. Five hundred alone to buy the wedding clothes! Though she is dead now, which just goes to show you."

If it did show him something, Ryan knew not what; and as Mrs Millan seemed to have no particular intelligence to give about the real object of his interest, he lapsed into distracted silence for the rest of the journey home.

 

* * *

 

The opportunity to acquire further real knowledge did not, however, long elude Ryan. The next morning dawned crisp but clear, and so he happily volunteered to savethe manservant a trip to the post office and carry Mrs Millan's letters there himself. Ryan's magnanimity was soon rewarded. Almost as soon as he stepped back outside the post office, he spotted a familiar, tall figure standing in front of the bookshop across the street, and barely had Ryan had time to draw breath when Mr Madej saw him in return.

Mr Madej crossed the street, defying a driver bowling along far too fast in a curricle to do so. "Mr Bergara," cried he, "what luck! I spot you just in time to propose that we enter into a temporary contract of mutual agreeableness."

Ryan couldn't help but laugh. Mr Madej was so _strange_ , and yet in a way that Ryan found quite appealing—he could not understand it. "What is such a thing, sir? You have me at an advantage."

"Why, that I shall stroll along here with you for a quarter hour or so and that all our agreeableness shall belong solely to each other for that time. I promise nothing but fidelity until I see you to the corner of your street. Unless you have any objections?"

"None at all," Ryan said, falling into step beside Mr Madej as they made their way slowly through the mid-morning bustle. "And in return, I engage to be as agreeable as I know how."

"Well that is a pledge worth having, and I proceed with courage," Mr Madej said solemnly. "Let us begin then as we mean to carry on: do you still find Bath _agreeable_?"

"Oh, very!" Ryan said. "There is so much to do here, and to see, such a variety of amusements. Life in the country is very happy, you know, but there is so much more sameness to it. I have been storing up sights and recollections to tell Papa and Mamma and the rest of them when I return home."

This led Mr Madej to ask Ryan of his family, and his favourite pursuits, and which play seen at Bath so far had been his favourite, and before Ryan knew it they were at the bottom of M—— Street. They made their goodbyes very properly, even if Mr Madej pressed Ryan's hand in his perhaps a moment longer than was customary, and even though Ryan was all confusion at his touch.

 

* * *

 

Mrs Millan was engaged to attend the theatre that very evening with some old school friends of hers and a number of their now-grown children. In the usual manner of things, Ryan might have felt a little out of place; but the presence of her friends kept Mrs Millan occupied without Ryan needing to do much more than carry her wrap for her, and for the first three acts he could happily lose himself in the merry war of Beatrice and Benedick, mouthing along with the words of the old favourite.

During the interval, however, Ryan became distracted by the sudden sight of a small party entering a box opposite theirs—Mr Madej among them. It did not take long before he caught Ryan's eye and smiled—Ryan blushed—and blushed the harder when one of Mrs Millan's friends, surveilling the audience through her opera glasses, exclaimed, "Well, and General Madej with his son, I declare! There's a man who doesn't make a habit of spending an evening anywhere but his own fireside."

Even before the name was mentioned, it was obvious to Ryan that the man with the military bearing sitting next to Mr Madej must be his father. They shared the cast of their features, although the General's complexion was fairer and he was not so tall. His gaze was as direct as his son's, though, and with his eye still directed towards Ryan, the General presently addressed Mr Madej in a familiar whisper. What that signified, Ryan could not quite tell.

The play resumed, and though the cast was as good as before, the stage could no longer hold Ryan's full attention. Every other look he must bestow on the opposite box, and Ryan felt himself unaccountably restless. The play concluded—the curtain fell—and just as Ryan was trying to work out what to do, Mr Madej appeared at the door of their box. He made his leg to both Mrs Millan and Ryan, and then spent some time with them talking about the play. Though Mr Madej did not ask Ryan to enter into another contract of agreeableness, he was so agreeable regardless that Ryan could not be contented when he finally rose to take his leave.

Mrs Millan declared that it was past time, too, for their party to depart, for it was growing late and her gown was getting sadly tumbled. Yet she seemed no more inclined to hurry home than Ryan was himself. Their group and the Madejs' mingled together companionably for several minutes in the theatre's lobby: Ryan and Mr Madej to continue their discussion as to who had the right of it, Beatrice or Benedick; Mrs Millan and one of her particular friends to chat with the General.

Loath as Ryan was to leave, he yet entered the carriage with a lightness of step, and his good spirits were matched by those of Mrs Millan.

"What the gentleman the General is!" Mrs Millan said, settling into her seat with a contented sigh. "Such pleasing manners, I have a great regard for him! And he was so very complimentary about you!"

Ryan was all shock. "Oh, but I cannot think why—I have never even been introduced to the General!"

"Yet it is but too true, my dear! Indeed he said you seemed to be one of the most eligible young men in Bath, and enquired after your family. And I gave him one of my winks, and I said I was of one mind with him, that I was sure you had _rich prospects_."

Ryan sighed. "Mrs Millan—"

"Well, the spirits have great confidence in you, and their predictions are never wrong," his friend insisted as she smoothed out her skirts. "One day, my dear, one day."

 

* * *

 

The next morning brought an unexpected but delightful surprise: a letter sitting on a salver at the breakfast table, a letter from none other than General Madej. In it, he requested that Ryan do him and his son the honour of spending the day with them.

Ryan sent back an acceptance with alacrity, blushing at the knowing look which Mrs Millan cast at him and the sly if somewhat confusing comments she passed about _first blooms_ and _tender expectations_.

Mr Madej called for him at the appointed time, though alone. "My father had an unexpected, pressing engagement," he said, seeming a little uncomfortable, so Ryan did not inquire further but instead agreed with Mr Madej's suggestion that they set out for a stroll round Beechen Cliff and its beautiful woods.

"It is such a beautiful spot," Ryan said. "I can never look at it without thinking of the south of France."

"You have been abroad?" Mr Madej asked, surprised.

"Oh, no! I only mean I have read about it—in _Udolpho_ , Emily and her father travel through that part of the country and the description seems to me so very like here. But then I'm sure you have not read it."

"What makes you so certain of that?"

"Because novels are not clever enough for you—clever people always disdain to read such things."

Mr Madej arched an eyebrow at him. "Then perhaps I am not clever at all, because I have read all of Mrs Radcliffe's works with great pleasure. I read _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ in two days, hardly able to set it down, my hair standing on end the whole time. Which was perhaps not the most _clever_ way to spend time, but it was highly entertaining then and gives me something to talk of with you now, so I am proud when I reflect on it and think it must confirm me in your good opinion."

Ryan did not know quite how to tell Mr Madej that he had long since held such a place, and so settled for saying the first thing that came to mind. "I have heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London."

Mr Madej seemed startled. "Indeed! Of what nature?"

"I do not know, only that it will be more horrible than anything we have met with yet."

"To any serious student of history, that must be a disturbing thought," Mr Madej said gravely. "For history is fully stocked with many very horrid examples indeed. Shall we expect murder, riots; scandals of every kind? Shall the government fall? Shall the Prince Regent be turned out into the street?"

Ryan stopped in the path and stared at him. "I do not comprehend you, sir."

"That, I believe, is what is generally termed _teasing_ ," Mr Madej said. His eyes crinkled at the corners most pleasingly when he smiled, Ryan noticed. "I know that you must mean that soon some new work in three volumes will appear, with a frontispiece for the first of two tombstones and a lantern and some Gothic delights within, but it seemed to me much more amusing to wilfully misunderstand you and conjure up a mob of thousands attacking the Tower and the streets of London flowing with blood."

Ryan considered this prospect for a moment. "You are very odd."

"And you, sir, inclined to always speak the truth as you perceive it."

The whole walk was delightful. Mr Madej attended Ryan back into the house on M—— Street, and before they parted he petitioned for the pleasure of Ryan's company at dinner on the day after next. Mrs Millan made no objections, and the only difficulty on Ryan's part was in concealing the excess of his pleasure at the invitation.

 

* * *

 

Ryan's expectations of happiness from his visit to P—— Street were very high, and he climbed the steps leading to the Madejs' townhouse in the best of spirits. So much so, perhaps, that disappointment was inevitable—reality so rarely matched imagination—but that night when readying himself for bed, Ryan could not but admit that the evening had not afforded a fraction of the happiness that he had prepared for. Though he had spent many hours in intimate conversation with Mr Madej merely a few days ago, now Ryan found him, if not quite cold, then certainly stilted. Never had he said so little, nor been so little agreeable; he had hardly raised his eyes from his plate. General Madej was certainly a man of great civility to Ryan, all thanks and attentions, invitations and compliments, but Ryan could not quite seem to find himself at ease in his presence. He could not figure it out. There was merely something in his manner that made Ryan want to fidget, and he picked more at the fish than he ate anything from it.

Mrs Millan, the next morning, could not offer any more explanation than could Ryan, but she was quick to come to her young friend's aid. "Pride! Haughtiness and pride! I have long suspected that family to think themselves very high, you know, and this confirms me in it. You know I have long thought that the General lacks even common good breeding—you can see it in his aura. How supercilious of him."

"It was not so bad as that, ma'am. They were… they were very civil to me."

"Hrm," Mrs Millan said, buttering a muffin with outraged vigour. "Well, some people's feelings are incomprehensible, but young Madej had appeared so attached to you! I declare, inconstancy is a thing I abhor above all others."

In some confusion, Ryan attempted to defend Mr Madej. He had made no promises to Ryan, after all, declared nothing; he owed nothing to _Ryan_.

"That's as may be, I suppose, but I shall persist in thinking this is shabby behaviour. Well, well, we shall see how they behave this evening. We shall meet them at the Rooms, most likely."

"Perhaps I shall not go—"

"No, no, I insist on it! It is settled. You do not have to dance, if you so choose, but attend you shall. Let not these Madejs interfere in your pleasure."

Ryan readied himself for that evening with an unusual degree of trepidation, and so was very surprised to find that almost as soon as he walked into the Rooms that Mr Madej approached him, all smiles, and asked him to stand up for the first dance. He was everything that was amiable, and Ryan soon doubted entirely what he had felt the night before. Perhaps _Ryan_ had been cold—perhaps _his_ conversation had been stilted—perhaps _he_ was the one who had been disagreeable.

That evening, Ryan forewent the customary glass of warm wine and water before he went to bed. His stomach felt too unsettled—he felt too unsettled. When he thought of the press of Mr Madej's hand in his, he could not but thrill at the remembered sensation. Indeed, to own the truth, once he settled under the covers Ryan found that he could not restrain himself from the unsought-for intimacy of thinking of him as _Shane_. And once he had permitted himself that, it was more difficult still for Ryan not to imagine Shane taking him in his arms, Shane pressing him close, pressing him down… This was not a proper train of thought, Ryan knew, and to indulge it further would be ungentlemanly. He bit his lip against the urge, curled his hands into fists. After all, Ryan did not know what Shane thought or felt about Ryan, or if there was truly any constancy of affection there—

In such a whirl of thoughts, Ryan passed an unsettled night.

 

* * *

 

Mrs Millan had now entered the sixth week of her stay in Bath, and whether it should be the last was for some time a matter of debate, one to which Ryan paid attention with a beating heart. Despite everything, to have his acquaintance with Shane Madej end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance. His relief, when Mrs Millan decided that she would take her lodgings for another fortnight, was great—so great indeed that Ryan let himself truly indulge in a secret "perhaps" or two. A fortnight was more than enough for words to be said—decisions to be made.

That very afternoon, Ryan encountered Mr Madej at the lending library, and poured forth his happy news. But no sooner had he done so than Mr Madej told him that the General had just determined upon quitting Bath by the end of the week. This was a blow indeed! The suspense of waiting for Mrs Millan's decision was nothing compared to this disappointment. Ryan could do nothing but echo, in tones of great dismay, "By the end of the week!"

"Yes, my father has decided he has had enough of the waters for this year, and is in a hurry to return home."

"I am very sorry for it," Ryan said, all dejection.

"If... that is, if you would be so good," Mr Madej began, but the entrance of his father put a stop to his speech.

"Well, Shane," said the General, having nodded a hello to Ryan. "Have you been successful in your application to your friend?"

"I was just beginning to make it, sir, as you came in."

"Proceed, by all means. My son, Mr Bergara," the General continued, without giving his son time to speak, "has formed a bold wish. We leave Bath by the end of the week, as he has perhaps told you. Your presence is perhaps the one thing we would regret to leave behind us. Can you be prevailed upon therefore to quit your friends here and oblige us with your company in ——shire? If you can be persuaded to honour us with such a visit, you would make us happy beyond expression. Truly, our home offers nothing like the gaieties of Bath, but we do hope that Schaumburg Abbey will not be wholly disagreeable to you."

Schaumburg Abbey! These were thrilling words, and Ryan could not but be flattered at such an invitation, especially one that contained within it all his future hopes. He was quick to accept, with only the saving clause of needing his parents' approval. "I will write home directly, and if they do not object, I should be happy to accompany you."

Mr Madej was earnest, if quieter, in his secondary invitation, and the whole matter was settled in a few minutes.

If Ryan had before experienced strong suspense and fierce disappointment, they were nothing now to the elation of his spirits. He hurried back to M—— Street, with Shane at his heart and Schaumburg Abbey on his lips, to write his letter. Mr and Mrs Bergara, relying on the judgement of Mrs Millan, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance which had been formed under her watch, and so by sent their consent by return of post. Ryan felt himself the luckiest creature on earth. To spend some weeks under the same roof as the person whose society he had come to prize above all others—and for that roof to be the roof of an abbey! To see and explore ramparts and cloisters was a happy prospect indeed, the passage of a favoured novel come to life. Ryan's imagination was filled with happy thoughts of long, damp passages, narrow cells, and ruined chapels—and to own the truth, he could not subdue the hope that the abbey had once been home to an injured and ill-fated nun.

 

* * *

 

With a mind so full of happy conjecture, the rest of the week passed very quickly for Ryan. Mrs Millan was sorry to lose him, for his good humour and cheerfulness had made him a valuable companion to her. Yet she attended Ryan to P—— Street, where he was to breakfast with the Madejs, and saw him seated with the kindest welcome among them before she made her farewells.

In the embarrassment of the first five minutes, Ryan could have wished himself back at M—— Street, for the General was seated at the head of the table and his incessant attentions made Ryan feel uncomfortable. Mr Madej's manners and smile did away with some of Ryan's apprehensions, but could not erase all of his unease with the General's manner, which seemed to him to verge on fawning. When the clock struck ten, the trunks were all carried down, and the General then was the midst of a whirl of activity, giving commands and chastising the servants. The curricle was not brought out on time—the footman had placed the parcels incorrectly—the harness of the horses was hardly arranged properly. At least, however, they set off. Ryan's spirits revived as they drove from the door, for the General had chosen to ride his own horse and with Mr Madej Ryan felt no unease. With the interest of a road entirely new to him and of an abbey before him, Ryan left Bath behind without any regret, and caught sight of each new milestone of the thirty that lay before them with enthusiasm.

To those sights were also added the pleasure of sitting next to Mr Madej, who handled the reins with a quiet competence which Ryan found most pleasing. And then the capes of his greatcoat were so becoming, and his conversation so free and easy. He hoped that Ryan would like the abbey, for it was an old building and surely lacking in the little modern comforts to which Ryan was accustomed.

"Oh, but it must be a fine old place, just like what one reads about?"

"Ah, you expect something from a novel," Mr Madej said, with an air of wisdom. "I should have known. Do you have the nerves, sir, for sliding panels and tapestries?"

"I hope that I have a stout heart," Ryan said, though not without some trepidation. He knew what tended to lurk behind such things in the books he had read. "I hope I should not be easily frightened. But then, your house has never been uninhabited and left deserted for years before you come back to it unawares without giving any notice and so find some blackguard has taken up residence in attic, as generally happens."

"Yes," Mr Madej said wryly. "The usual manner of things. No, you must resign yourself to the prospect of not having to explore the abbey by the dim light of a single candle. Or do you wish to be formally conducted by some decrepit housekeeper along gloomy passages to an apartment never used since some lovelorn cousin died in it about twenty years before? I hope you can stand the prospect of being shown to a room hung with tapestries of gloomy purple and green velvet and presenting the most funereal appearance."

"You are in jest," Ryan said, though somewhat doubtfully. Mr Madej did not seem the kind of person to have been raised amid such trappings; but then again, his home _was_ called Schaumburg Abbey.

"Oh no, no," Mr Madej said. "Nothing will satisfy me now but that you are shown to a room which contains a ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace the portrait of some long-dead someone whose features are unusually arresting. I shall arrange for the housekeeper to wring her hands and drop ominous hints about past horrors before vanishing just as peals of thunder ring out, so loud that they shake the abbey to its foundations and roll around the neighbouring mountains as if they are being harried by the Wild Hunt itself."

Ryan's eyes were wide. Despite the warmth of the day, he could not help a shiver. He pictured frothing horses and baying hellhounds galloping past a crumbling pile lit by flashes of lightning—distant peaks capped with ice and snow. "Mountains! I have never seen mountains before."

Mr Madej cast him a wry, sidelong glance. "There are no mountains in ——shire, look as you might. Though I am sure that if the abbey does contain any hidden vaulted rooms, subterranean tunnels leading to lost medieval chapels, instruments of torture or inner compartments containing the last testament of some poor wretched soul, you shall be the one seek them out."

"I should not refuse any opportunity to investigate, no!" Ryan declared, sitting as upright as possible in his seat.

Mr Madej seemed much amused by this, but the thread of their conversation was lost as they found themselves turning through the gates of the lodge—a much more modern building than Ryan had expected—into the very grounds of Schaumburg itself. The curricle bowled rapidly along a smooth, level road of fine gravel and soon they were in front of the abbey proper. It was not quite what Ryan had expected—had hoped for—either within or without. True, the windows rose to pointed arches and the walls were made of slabs of heavy stone, but the whole spoke of several generations of careful stewardship and improvements in the hands of the Madej family. There was no stained glass, nor dirt, nor cobwebs. Ryan found this all quite distressing.

The General, who had arrived some quarter of an hour before them, was waiting in the drawing room. Perceiving how Ryan looked around him as he entered, the General was keen that he notice how the room had been fitted up lately with furniture in the modern style, how repairs had been made to the fireplace with an eye to comfort, and how he flattered himself that young Mr Bergara might particularly like the gilding work that had been undertaken in—but then stopped short when, taking out his watch, he pronounced in surprise that it was within twenty minutes of five! Ryan found himself hurried away by Mr Madej in such a way that convinced him that strictest punctuality would be expected here at Schaumburg Abbey.

They climbed a broad staircase of brightly polished oak and passed through a series of hallways to a long, wide gallery which on one side had a range of doors and on the other a series of windows which looked out into a cloister below. Ryan had scarcely time to take this all in before Mr Madej left him at the door of one chamber. "I hope you will find it comfortable, though perhaps the full exploration may be left until later," Mr Madej said in a low voice. "My father values punctuality."

Once inside, the quickest of glances was enough to satisfy Ryan that his bedroom was nothing like Mr Madej's teasing description. While not as modishly decorated as the drawing-room below, the furniture seemed comfortable and lacked any hangings of velvet of any colour. Dreading the prospect of disobliging the General by any delay, Ryan hurried over to the glass to fix his hair and repair his cravat. In so doing, his eye fell on a large, tall chest standing in a deep recess on one side of the fireplace. The sight of it made Ryan remember what Mr Madej had said to him, of a ponderous chest which no efforts could open.

Curious, Ryan advanced and examined it: it was a cedar chest, intricately carved and inlaid with a darker wood. Its silver lock was tarnished with age, and at each end were the remains of silver handles, broken through some strange violence; on the centre of the lid was a mysterious cipher in the same metal. This did nothing to lessen Ryan's curiosity, and he reached out to open the chest, hoping to satisfy himself at least as to its content—but at that moment a sudden knocking at the door made him startle and gasp.

It was Mr Madej's valet, sent by his master to be of use to Mr Bergara; and though Ryan immediately dismissed him, it recalled him to what he ought to be doing. He finished his toilette, but his gaze kept slipping back to the chest. Surely _one_ moment might be spared, and Ryan decided to try again. It took some effort, for the lid was prodigiously heavy, but it gave—he threw it back and looked in—to behold a... white cotton counterpane, neatly folded, at one end of the chest.

Ryan blushed at himself for having harboured absurd expectations and hurried for the door, to be met there by Mr Madej who gently hinted that he feared their being late. In half a minute they ran downstairs together and found their alarm was not wholly unwarranted, for General Madej was pacing the drawing-room, watch in hand, and as soon as they entered he pulled the bell and barked an order for dinner to be set on the table directly.

They entered the dining-room and sat down, Ryan in all the trembling consciousness both of having been a simpleton and of having attracted the General's disapproval. The General at least seemed to notice some of this, and spent the rest of the meal in scolding his son for having so hurried his friend, who seemed so out of breath, when there had not been the least occasion for hurry; the General did not consider himself a stickler. Nothing in Mr Madej's expression seemed to support this, but at least the General's tone softened as he spoke and the food was good enough to restore Ryan's appetite.

A glass or two of wine served to loosen the General still further, and he expounded at length on the cost of fitting up this room in the latest style, and the particular kind of marble used in the fireplace. He supposed, however, "that he must have been used to much more luxuriously appointed apartments at Mrs Millan's?"

"No, indeed," was Ryan's honest assurance. "Or at least, her dining parlour is not _quite_ so big," he continued, not wishing to sound as if he were disparaging his friend's home. It may not have had the elegance, size, or modishness of Schaumburg Abbey, but it was comfortable and Ryan had spent many happy hours there.

The evening passed without any further disturbance, and the party broke up early, fatigued by the journey. Any hopes Ryan had of a quick and sound slumber were, however, dashed by the fact that the night was stormy. The wind had been rising at steady intervals the whole evening, and now it was quite violent, whipping rain to beat a tattoo against the window panes. Ryan, as he donned his nightshirt, truly felt for the first time that he was in an abbey. The sounds brought to his memory all the many horrid scenes he'd ever read about in novels populated with mad monks and lascivious priests. Mr Madej had surely only been in jest in his suggestions on the journey here, but Ryan couldn't quite put from his mind the idea that even now some phantom, some poor lost shade, was gliding silently down the passage outside.

His room at least was made warm and cheerful by a small fire that one of the servants had set in the grate. Ryan's fears of a vengeful spirit were less immediate when he stood in front of the fender and warmed his hands. "There is nothing to fear, there is nothing to be alarmed about," he told himself. "Though perhaps a look about the room wouldn't hurt."

Ryan made an investigation of each part of the room, carelessly humming a tune as he did so to assure himself of just how unfounded his fears were. There were no ghosts behind the curtains, no spectral hounds lurking beneath the bed. The old chest, Ryan could now look on with all the scorn of hindsight. Just as he had resolved on finally climbing beneath the covers, however, Ryan spotted a tall, old-fashioned cabinet in one corner of the room, half-hidden behind some drapery. It was made of ebony and gilt wood, and had a key in the door—and though, of course, Ryan told himself, there could be nothing within it other than linens. He had not the smallest expectation of finding anything at all within, but it could not hurt to look. Could it?

The key turned, but how mysterious: the door still wouldn't open. Ryan took a breath. He could hear the wind roaring down the chimney, the rain beating against the windows, and it all seemed like a portent. He was tempted to give up and retire to bed, but he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. Ryan tried again, turning the key this way and that, and finally succeeded in throwing open the door. Behind it was a double range of small drawer, with some larger drawers above and below; and in the centre a small door, closed also with lock and key.

Ryan's heart beat faster, and he summoned up all his courage. He reached out with trembling fingers and opened one of the drawers. It was empty. He reached for a second, a third, a fourth; all empty. Ryan was well-versed in how a secret might be concealed, but he could not find any secret linings or false bottoms. The locked door in the middle alone now remained.

"There won't be anything," he told himself firmly. "It will be as empty as all the others, and I'm not the least bit disappointed at that, but it would be foolish not to look into this while I am about it."

This lock was stiffer than the first one, but at length the key turned, and Ryan opened the door to find a roll of paper pushed into the furthest part of the cavity. Ryan's heart fluttered in his chest, his knees shook, for when he pulled out the paper it was to find that it was covered with written characters in a shaky hand. Alas, the fire had died down sufficiently that Ryan could not make out what any of it said, and as he stood there, all indecision, an unusually strong gust of wind rattled the house and made some distant door bang closed with great violence.

All of a sudden, Ryan remembered what Mr Madej had said about the Wild Hunt, and not all the knowledge that Schaumburg Abbey was far from any mountain could stop the manuscript from falling from his suddenly nerveless fingers. Ryan groped his way to bed and jumped in, curling himself into a ball as far beneath the coverlet as he could get. This had been his favoured procedure when a child, a sure protection against monsters, but it seemed not so efficacious now. He tossed and turned for what seemed like many tedious hours, and though exhausted he heard all the clocks in the house strike three before he finally fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

It was eight o'clock in the morning by the time the sound of the housemaid opening the shutters roused Ryan. He sat up to find that the fire was already lit again and that the morning outside was bright and clear. As soon as the maid went away, he sprang out of bed and seized up the scattered pages, then hurried back to peruse them while propped up against his pillows. He read them first with eagerness, and then with growing surprise. One page comprised an inventory of linen; another a washing bill. Two more listed expenditures in hair-powder, shoe-string, and thread. And the larger sheet, which had enclosed the rest, was a recipe for a horse poultice. This was what had deprived Ryan of half a night's rest! He felt humbled to the dust.

"Mr Madej must never know of this," he told himself firmly.

Ryan washed and dressed with all speed and made his way down to the breakfast-parlour. Mr Madej was there already, and his immediate hope that Ryan had passed a night undisturbed by the storm was unknowingly distressing to Ryan. Not for the world would he have had Mr Madej know how silly he'd been and yet, unable to lie absolutely, weakly he said that the wind had kept him awake a little. "But we have a charming morning now! Indeed it seems that the gardens are all in bloom."

"Perhaps they might tempt you, then, to take a turn about them after breakfast?" Mr Madej said this with a look on his face that Ryan might have called shyness, had he ever seen such an expression on the man's face before.

Ryan was just about to accept when the General walked in and sat down at the table. The business of procuring him coffee and kippers and toast was of course a distraction to all of them, and before the conversation could resume its course, the General offered to take Ryan on a tour of the house. Although Ryan had hoped to explore it accompanied only by Mr Madej, he could not with politeness refuse.

"And after the house, I hope also to have the pleasure of showing you the shrubberies and the garden," the General continued. "But perhaps it might be better to look at those first? The weather bids changeable today. The abbey is always warm and dry but the gardens might not be so. I will fetch my hat and attend you in a moment."

Ryan could only bow his unwilling acquiescence at this flood of commands, and wonder at Mr Madej's unusual silence as they waited for the General to return.

 

* * *

 

The picturesque grandeur of Schaumburg Abbey, when seen from its lawns, could not be denied. The building stood enclosed by a large court, richly ornamented with Gothic carvings which though blurred by time still demanded the onlooker's study and admiration. Behind it stood tall stands of trees, surely ancient even when the Tudors were still on the throne. Ryan had seen nothing to compare with it, and the General was very approving of his praise of it all.

From here, they visited the kitchen gardens, which were again beyond all of Ryan's experience. They were counted in acres, and as such were more than double the extent of Mrs Millan's and his father's together, even when coupled with the churchyard and the orchards which stood between them. The roofs of the hot-houses seemed like a village in themselves, and so many backs rose and fell within the rows of plants that the General must surely have employed the parish entire.

The General seemed flattered by Ryan's look of surprise, and spoke with some attempt at humility at how he was sure there were gardens to surpass this in the kingdom—more vexation than hobby horse really, what with the care it demanded—but Mrs Millan must feel these inconveniences herself?

"No, not at all," Ryan said distractedly, his attention caught by a cabbage quite five times as big as any he had ever seen before. It alone would have provided meal enough for a very large family indeed. "Mrs Millan does not care about the garden, and never goes into it."

They progressed till Ryan was heartily weary of having to come up with new terms of praise for every legume they saw. At length, however, the General's steward came to find him. He was needed on some urgent business, and so the General left Ryan and Mr Madej, proposing that they might continue up to the folly. "Excellent views from there."

Ryan's spirits were relieved by the separation, and so too it seemed were Mr Madej's, for as they set out on a narrow winding path through a thick grove of old Scotch firs, he spoke for the first time since they had quitted the breakfast table.

"I am particularly fond of this way," said he. "It was my mother's favourite walk."

Ryan had never heard Mrs Madej mentioned in the family before. "You feel her loss keenly," he ventured to say.

"I was only thirteen when it happened," Mr Madej replied in a low voice. "It was a shock, and I felt the loss then as strongly as any boy would have, though perhaps I did not, could not, truly know the extent of it. I have no siblings, you know, and my father... well, had I a mother still, things I am sure would have been quite different these past years."

 _That_ indeed was all Ryan needed to feel persuaded that there was some awful truth here. The General must have been an unkind husband; the marriage must have been an unhappy one; there was something in the very set of his features which spoke of his not having behaved well to her. How often had he read of such things? What possible explanation could otherwise be offered?

"Was she the lady whose portrait hangs in the drawing-room?" That one, bigger than life-size, showed a woman dressed in a style perhaps too old-fashioned for her to have been Mr Madej's mother, though there was a marked resemblance.

"No, that was an aunt of mine," Mr Madej said. "My father was never satisfied with any portrait of my mother, but soon after her death I obtained the lone surviving example for my own and hung it in my bed-chamber. I should be happy to show it to you. She was considered one of the beauties of the county, and it is very like—though for me its real charm lies in its preservation of the memory of the best of mothers."

Here was more proof: the husband disdaining the portrait of a late wife, although it was very like and she a beauty! Ryan could not now think of the General with anything but aversion. His opinion was quite settled.

 

* * *

 

When they regained the house, the General came to meet them, his business completed but his character now irreparably tarnished in the eyes of his young guest. He insisted that Ryan's tour of the house now take place, and the next few hours passed in a whirl of dates and measurements and the names of Madej ancestors, as they processed from common drawing-room to drawing-room proper, from one useless antechamber to another, from library to billiard-room to kitchen and a dozen others beside. Only the library attracted Ryan's real interest, both from the quantity of books it contained and for its air of true antiquity, something which most of the other rooms had lost thanks to the activity of so many generations.

Up the main stairs they went, and Ryan was shown through four large bed-chambers, each with its own dressing-room, each one furnished within the last five years or so and commanding beautiful views out over the park. The General named the distinguished guests that each one had housed over the years—royalty, no less—and to hear the General conclude with a smile and a bow and to say that he ventured to hope that some of their next guests would be "our friends from L——" made Ryan’s mouth gape. He felt the unexpected compliment fully, and immediately after the twist of guilt, at thinking ill of a man who yet thought Ryan's mother worthy of laying her head where once Good Queen Bess had laid hers.

They visited the great gallery which was panelled with black oak and hung thickly with gloomy portraits of Madej ancestors. When they finished the circuit of it, Mr Madej, advancing, opened a door set so cunningly into the panelling that Ryan had not even known it was there. He had a glimpse of a narrow passage beyond, the beginning of a spiral stone staircase, but then the General was saying hastily, even angrily, that "There could be nothing worth seeing there—Mr Bergara had seen everything that could be worth his notice—it surely must be time for refreshment after so much exercise."

Mr Madej drew back instantly, head hanging, and closed the door. The General preceded them down the stairs, saying that he was in search of a servant to fetch some tea to the common drawing-room. The behaviour of both father and son convinced Ryan that something was seriously amiss here, that something was being concealed. He may have been wrong about the secrets contained in his own chamber, but surely his fancy wasn't leading him astray here.

He was confirmed in his sense of righteousness when Mr Madej said, in halting tones, "I was going to take you into what was my mother's room—the room in which she died—" Mr Madej said no more, but Ryan was certain he knew what his friend was trying to convey.

The rest of the morning passed in no greater ease, though thankfully after luncheon the General had to ride out to visit some tenants, and the air in the drawing-room instantly felt less close. This was not simply the function of there being more space in the room, for Mr Madej soon left his spot by the window for one on the same sofa as Ryan. He stretched his legs out in front of him—Ryan found himself momentarily distracted by the sheer length of them, and how his breeches were not quite capable of hiding his ankles—and asked Ryan if he found himself pleased with the abbey's situation.

"I know it has the disadvantage of being rather far removed from your own family," Mr Madej said cautiously, "but I hope you do not find the distance too great—the surroundings too strange?"

"No, not at all!" Ryan assured him. Nothing he had seen of Schaumburg Abbey thus far had seemed objectionable, saving only the presence of the General. "The countryside here has perhaps the _advantage_ presently, in offering new prospects to explore. Though I do not think that an increased familiarity with this place would make me less inclined to, ah, to find it agreeable."

"Indeed?" said Mr Madej, and seemed pleased. Ryan could not be quite certain if it was just wishful thinking on his part, or if Mr Madej really had shifted a little bit closer to him on the sofa, and he was pleased, too.

The hours passed in more happy conversation and, when Ryan spotted the pianoforte in the corner of the room, in making music. Neither of them could truthfully lay claim to having been the star pupils of their respective masters, though Mr Madej perhaps was the stronger of the two. Certainly he was the more able to ignore the sheet music and extemporise little ditties of his own which, silly as they were—a ballad sung from the perspective of some of the foodstuffs they had consumed at luncheon—yet had the power to make Ryan laugh.

Yet there was no business so great as to keep the General away from home the rest of the day entire, and so the dinner that evening, though sumptuous, was another awkward affair. The General seemed so keen that Ryan approve of the chicken that it quite put him out of appetite. Ryan sat with a book afterwards, while Mr Madej wrote letters to some fellows of his in the Royal Society, and the General read through newspapers and political pamphlets and occasionally read aloud passages that particularly struck him. Ryan could not think why, for the travails of parliament more often seemed stuff and nonsense to him than otherwise. Mr Madej seemed to feel the difference between night and day as keenly as did Ryan, and they both of them pled tiredness and retired early.

Ryan's mother would surely have been appalled to find that in so doing, Ryan had uttered a falsehood to his host. It was merely that he was convinced that there was some true mystery to be solved here, some truth which could be unearthed only while the household slept around him. Perhaps it was as in a number of novels that Ryan had read: Mrs Madej yet lived, shut up for some reason by her pitiless husband, never to feel sunlight on her skin again and fed a meagre diet of coarse bread and water. Or she had died, poisoned at the hand of the General, and her skeleton lay in sombre repose in that locked room, an eternal rebuke to her faithless husband? The most likely thing, of course, was that Mrs Madej was buried safely in the ancestral plot but that her unhappy ghost was condemned to haunt the room in which she had died. For after all, what kind of building was more fitted to such a purpose, of unhappy memory and division and eternal solitude, than an abbey?

Ryan sat upright on his bed until the clocks in the house struck midnight. He waited, ears straining, for some few moments after, but when he heard no sign that anyone was astir outside, he took up his candle and went out into the hallway. In a matter of moments, he was in the gallery and found that the door to the forbidden staircase opened readily and quietly to his hand. He climbed the stair, each step in time with the thudding of his heart, and found himself in the room which had once been Mrs Madej's. What he beheld rooted him to the spot and made him all agitation. Even in the dim candlelight, there could be no doubting what he saw: a large, well-proportioned room, even now without any trace of dust or cobwebs. A handsome bed was made up with bright coverings, a modern stove stood against one wall, while neatly painted chairs stood either side of the windows and around a table on which some paintbrushes and pots yet stood.

He was at first astonished, then doubtful, and then full of shame. This was certainly the room, and Ryan could not believe that this room, out of all the many in Schaumburg Abbey, could be home to an unhappy spectre. All at once, he felt sick of exploring and desired nothing so much as to be safe in his own room, his folly known only to himself. He hurried back down the stairs, out the door into the galley, and walked directly into Shane.

"Mr Madej!" Ryan exclaimed, in a voice almost too breathless and fearful to be called astonished.

"What on earth are you doing?" Mr Madej replied, in tones which certainly could be termed thus.

"I—I have been to see your mother's room," Ryan said, casting his eyes down. He felt astonishingly like his six-year-old self, having been caught in the pantry by his own mother eating jam from the jar with a spoon.

"My mother's room!" Mr Madej said, all surprise. "Is there anything so extraordinary to be seen there? And at this time of night?"

"I—that is, no, nothing at all. I—forgive me." Ryan made to pass around Mr Madej and return to his own chamber, conscious of nothing so much as his own mortification, but was stopped by Mr Madej gently catching hold of his wrist.

"You are pale—you look ill," Mr Madej said. "Truly, is something the matter?"

Ryan shook his head, but could not make himself speak, and suffered instead to be led by the hand back to his room. There, Mr Madej sat him down in one of the low chairs by the dying fire, and then stoked it until it was merrily ablaze once again and afforded them enough light to see one another by. Then he sat down next to Ryan.

"Will not you tell me what you were doing there?" He once more took one of Ryan's hand in his, and much as Ryan had hoped for such a gesture, now it only served to make him feel worse. "I am concerned."

"I am well," Ryan said, slowly and with much hesitation. "It was only, well, you spoke of your mother dying so unexpectedly—and your father, I thought—perhaps, perhaps he had not been very fond of her, and..."

He could speak no more, but Mr Madej as always was quick. He sat back in his chair. "And from this, you jumped to the idea of some negligence, or some act even less pardonable." For a long moment, Mr Madej was quiet. Then he began again, "As I've told you before, I am an only child. My mother long hoped for more children to fill this house, although my own birth was a difficult one and the physicians made it clear to her that to attempt to bring another life into the world would be the end of her own. But she did persist, and eventually was brought to bed where she laboured for days. She received every possible attention from a physician in whom I have the greatest confidence, but on the fourth day she died."

"And—and your father..." Ryan ventured tentatively.

"You err if you suppose that he was never attached to her. I believe he loved her, if after his own manner. I… I will not pretend that their marriage was everything I could have hoped for for so estimable a woman, but he was not unaffected by her loss. He grieved her."

Ryan let out a shaky breath. "I am glad of it. It would have been very shocking to hear otherwise!"

"If I understand you correctly, you had formed such an idea that I can scarcely—Mr Bergara." Ryan looked up to see such an expression on Mr Madej's face that he had never seen before—that he would not have thought him capable of making. "Consider the dreadful nature of what you suggest. We do not live within the covers of a novel. Do you think truly that such a thing could have passed unknown in the eyes of society or the law? Do you think that _I_ could ever condone such treatment of my own mother, or remain unmoved in the place where it had been committed? My dear sir, what ideas have you been admitting?"

There was nothing to be said to that. Tears stung at Ryan's eyes, and when the bedroom door closed quietly behind Mr Madej, they flowed freely.

 

* * *

 

All hope of romance must be over now. Mr Madej's speech, as short as it had been, had opened Ryan's eyes more fully than any of his previous disappointments had done. Mr Madej must despise him forever for how Ryan had denigrated the character of his father, for the absurdity of his curiosity and the liberties he had taken. He passed as miserable a night as ever he had, watching the ceiling slowly lighten from black to grey to white as the sun rose. Ryan went down a little late to breakfast the next morning, in something close to a state of terror. He could barely answer the General's inquiry as to his well-being, so afraid was he of what Mr Madej would do when he entered. Yet instead of coldness, when he entered Mr Madej was perhaps rather more quietly solicitous than usual. Ryan could not remember being more in want of comfort, and Mr Madej looked as if he were aware of that.

Such kindness, Ryan felt, he had not at all earned. In the face of such nobility, Ryan could do nothing less than form a resolution of always judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense. There could be no possibility of an offer _now_ , but friendship, perhaps—perhaps that could remain. He could scarce swallow his toast around the resulting lump in his throat.

The General, at least, seemed not to notice anything amiss, sequestered as he was behind his newspaper. He harrumphed over notices that such-and-such had made captain or major, could not be persuaded of any use in the latest legislation, and passed judgement on each new marriage announced.

"Harringthwaite let his daughter marry the Warner chit, I see. Damned fool to let her accept anyone with a farthing less than twenty thousand to his or her name."

"I think, sir," Shane said mildly, pouring out a fresh cup of tea for himself and Ryan, "that the Harringthwaites may comfortably afford to marry whom they choose."

It surprised Ryan a little to hear the General speak in such a way, when he must surely know that at his table sat someone whose portion was almost certainly smaller than Miss Warner's; but in the midst of so much else to think and reflect on, the thought soon passed from his mind.

 

* * *

 

"Ride out with me?" Ryan looked up from the letter he was writing to his parents to see Mr Madej in a rather worn old pair of breeches and some battered boots, a crop in one hand. "The weather is fine, and the horses could use the exercise."

Ryan hesitated. He had seen the kind of horses which the Madejs kept—high-mettled ones all, of a very different quality to the two stolid geldings which spent far more time on the Bergara farm than they ever did being ridden by a member of the family. To gallop along on a thoroughbred seemed a very different proposition indeed than to plod along a country lane on old Pirate.

"If… if you like," Ryan said. "Though I am no great horseman."

"Luckily for you," Mr Madej said, "I am more in need of company than I am of equestrian feats."

Thankfully either Mr Madej or his groom recognised Ryan's nerves for what they were, and arranged for him to ride a sedate roan cobb, while Mr Madej swung his long legs over a fine chestnut mare. Side by side, they rode out from the stableyard and over the rolling abbey lawns until they met a bridle path that headed south.

"A proposition for you, sir," Mr Madej said, all apparent innocence.

Ryan was instantly on his guard. "I do not feel that I can like your tone."

"Well, the legs of your horse are shorter than those of mine, which is surely the result of some transitive property of ownership, so I _shall_ give you a headstart just as if it were a footrace," Mr Madej said. "But do you not long to know which of us would reach that stream first?"

"You are incorrigible," Ryan said, and in the moment when Mr Madej was trying to think of a riposte, he spurred his horse into a gallop.

Mr Madej let out a cry of "Rogue!", though he had proposed this very thing, and Ryan soon heard the hooves of his horse in pursuit. His cobb ran bravely, but over a fifth of a mile, Mr Madej's thoroughbred and experience had the advantage and he made the stream the first of them. Ryan couldn't find the loss galling, however, not given his delight in both the race itself and in the smile—the true, unfettered smile—which it had put on Mr Madej's face.

They let the horses slow to a walk and then turned to follow the stream's gentle meander in companionable silence. From here, they had an excellent view back towards the abbey itself, its old stone glowing in the late morning sun. For a moment, Ryan could imagine that they had been cast back into the past several centuries: that they were knights come to Schaumburg on pilgrimage and that even now the sound of the abbey's bells would reach them through the still air. He shook his head vigorously to rid himself of the image. Good sense only! He had promised himself that.

"What has earned such vigorous disapproval?" Mr Madej asked.

"Oh!" Ryan said. "Nothing at all, except that I am reminding myself of my resolve to be very sensible in the future, and not to engage in flights of fancy."

"Ah," Mr Madej said. "No more fear of ghosts then."

Ryan frowned at him. "But ghosts are perfectly real! There is nothing fanciful about them."

The resulting argument lasted for the rest of the ride, though it was infinitely more pleasurable experience than their disagreement of the night before—not least because, just before they turned back into the stableyard, Mr Madej had looked over at him and said, "You may call me Shane, you know. If you wish."

Ryan did.

 

* * *

 

A few days after this, the General found himself obliged to go to London for a week. His departure showed that a loss was sometimes a gain, for Ryan now knew what Schaumburg Abbey could be like with no sense of the restraint which the General's presence had imposed. Their daily schedule was no longer at the whims of his own, and if Ryan still felt at times the pangs of sadness that had been occasioned by his own folly, then Shane's gentle manner was always enough to quickly recall him to equanimity.

It did not escape Ryan's notice that he was now in the fourth week of his visit, and he knew that if he stayed much longer he might be considered more intrusion than guest. Accordingly the following morning over tea, he ventured to say that perhaps he would be leaving soon?

Shane looked and declared himself much concerned. "I had hoped for the pleasure of your company for a longer time—but perhaps Mr and Mrs Bergara wish to have you home again?"

"Oh, no! Papa and Mama are in no hurry at all," Ryan explained. "It is just that I have been here so long, you must think me rude—"

"I do not," Shane said firmly.

"Or perhaps you might wish for other, other companionship?" It was a perfectly innocent statement, and Ryan could not understand why uttering it caused his cheeks to heat so thoroughly. He shifted in his seat.

"Indeed, no," Shane said. He reached out and, for just a moment, his fingertips brushed against the cuff of Ryan's shirt. "But if you think your stay overlong—"

"No, no, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay here as long again," Ryan said with as much conviction as he could express. With that, it was settled that he would remain some weeks longer, and the look of gratification on Shane's face was enough to make Ryan—almost—believe that there was some love there.

That there was a growing intimacy between them was, however, undeniable. They stayed so long in conversation that Thursday evening that it was eleven o'clock, rather a late hour at the abbey, before they quitted the supper-room. Never had Ryan dawdled so on his way up a set of stairs. Shane seemed no more inclined towards haste—nor, indeed, to straying more than a hand's span from Ryan's side. At the top of the stairs, Shane turned towards him and cleared his throat and Ryan's breath caught because he could have sworn that—and then they heard wheels crunching over the gravel outside and the sound of the house bell ringing. This was indeed a surprise at such an hour, but Shane urged Ryan to go on to bed.

"It's likely Parker, the steward," he said. "He's too accustomed to the hours my father keeps, I'm afraid.'

Ryan went on to his chamber. A half hour passed, and he was just about to climb beneath his coverlet when there came a sound at the door, as if some hand were trembling against the handle. Ryan steeled himself— _good common sense_ , he reminded himself—and opened the door. Shane, and only Shane, stood there. This afforded Ryan only a moment's relief, however, because Shane was pale and his manner agitated.

He came into the room, but it seemed an effort for him to sit at the chair to which Ryan gestured, and an even greater one to speak.

"Has something happened?" Ryan said. A terrible idea struck him. "It—is it an express from home?"

"No, no indeed," Shane said. He twisted his long fingers together in his lap; his eyes were downcast. "It was my father, who has returned unexpectedly and, and given me an errand that... My dear Mr Bergara—Ryan—we are to part. You must know how happy your company has made me these past weeks but my father has recollected a, a long-standing engagement in the north that will take us away on Monday. I am so very sorry."

Ryan's heart sunk, but not for the world would he have been the means of increasing Shane's evident distress. "You must not apologise. A second engagement must indeed give way to the first. I am sorry for it, but I am not offended, indeed not. And I hope that perhaps, when your travels are done, you might come to visit me and my family."

"It will not be in my power, Ryan."

"Come when you can, then."

Shane made no answer.

"Well," Ryan said, forcing a smile onto his face. "I shall write directly to my parents in the morning. If the General can see me so far as S—— on Saturday, my father's man can meet me there in the gig, for that is only nine miles from—"

Shane shook his head. "That is not possible. My father had fixed tomorrow morning for your leaving us. The carriage will depart at seven o'clock."

Ryan stared. This defied all civility—all propriety. "H-have I offended the General?" he asked in a faltering voice.

"There is no possible offence that you can have given, but he…" Shane's mouth twisted. "His temper is not happy and he is greatly discomposed just now. I am sorry for this. More sorry than I can say."

Shane clasped Ryan’s hand once and then was gone, leaving Ryan to sit in mute stupefaction. To be turned from the house, and in such a way! This was rudeness, even insolence—and from a man whom everyone in Bath had thought so polite, from a man who had always seemed so full of solicitude towards Ryan. The manner of Ryan's leaving was so inconvenient that it could not but be an intentional affront, and there was something in Shane's countenance which made Ryan think he knew more than he told.

Ryan lay down for a little while, but he did not sleep. He rose before the sun did, and had dressed and almost finished his packing before Shane appeared shortly after six to see if he needed any assistance. He could manage nothing more than a few mouthfuls in the breakfast parlour, the food like ashes in his mouth, and it seemed that Shane's appetite was no greater.

The carriage was at the door punctually at seven, and at the last Ryan found that his bravery failed him. To think that this was it—this was perhaps the last moment—was more than could be borne. "You know how I... you know I..." A painful lump in his throat made it impossible for Ryan to speak further.

He was astounded when Shane took a step forward and wrapped him up in his arms, his embrace strong enough to be painful and his face pressed into Ryan's hair. The space of a breath, no more; then he pulled back and turned away, and there was nothing for Ryan to do put leave the hall and climb into the carriage. In a moment, he was driven from the door.

 

* * *

 

Ryan was too confused at first for fear or sadness, but each of these emotions he felt successively as the carriage conveyed him the fourteen miles to S——. What could he have done, to lose the General's regard to suddenly, so violently? The only offence against him of which Ryan could accuse himself was known only to Shane and to his own heart, and Ryan could not believe that Shane would have betrayed him. If the General had become aware of Ryan having thought him a murderer, then his actions would perhaps not be so inexplicable—but surely then Shane would have owned the truth?

In an unceasing parade of doubts and inquiries, the journey passed much more quickly than Ryan had thought it would. He changed for the stage at S——, and between six and seven o'clock in the evening caught his first glimpse of the familiar spire of L—— on the horizon.

At the end of every novel that Ryan had ever read, the hero returned to his native village in triumph, in possession of title and fortune and marriage band. He felt the bathos of his own return keenly—set down as he was unheralded and dusty with little more to his name than he had had in his possession when he first left. The Bergaras, however, set no store by such tropes. From the moment that his youngest sibling caught sight of him at the gate, Ryan’s return was declared in many happy voices. His parents, his brothers, his sisters, were quick to surround him, and in the joyful nature of a family reunion all Ryan's cares were for a time forgotten.

Once the first flush of reunion was passed, once his mother had pressed refreshments on him, then his parents began to question him as to his sudden appearance. They had not expected him—his room was not made up—had a letter gone astray? Ryan told his story as best he could while saving his and Shane's blushes, but even such a bowdlerised tale was enough to have Mr and Mrs Bergara exclaim that General Madej had acted neither honourably nor with feeling—neither as a gentleman nor as a parent.

"He must be a very strange man," Mrs Bergara concluded, after many exclamations. "But depend upon it, my dear, he is not worth your understanding him."

"No indeed," agreed Mr Bergara. "Ryan is safe now at home, and our comfort does not depend on General Madej, at least."

Ryan could only sigh at that. Feeling tired out and worn down, he readily agreed to his mother's advice that he go to bed early.

The next morning after breakfast, Ryan sat down to write a letter to Shane. It was no more than a note, in truth, but it served to convey the news that Ryan had made it safely home and that he expressed his thanks for the Madejs' hospitality. It was as stilted and as difficult a letter as Ryan had ever written; but not to have penned one would have been a breach of etiquette, and to have expressed even a tenth of what he really felt would have surely made Shane blush.

"A strange kind of acquaintance indeed," Mrs Bergara observed as Ryan sealed up his letter. "Soon made and soon ended! A pity, for Mrs Millan thought them a very good kind of family. Ah well, we live and learn; and soon I hope you will make new friends better worth keeping, my dear."

Ryan was conscious of the heat rising in his cheeks as he said, "No friend could be better worth keeping than Shane."

His mother patted him on the arm. "Well, there, there. If you are destined to remain friends, ten to one you will be thrown together again in the course of a few years, and then that will be a happy reunion."

This was less a consolation than Mrs Bergara hoped. Ryan knew that he would never forget Shane, or think less fondly of him; but _he_ might forget Ryan, and if they were to meet then—!

Mrs Bergara, seeing that her son's spirits were still low, proposed that they call on Mrs Millan. Their houses stood only a quarter of a mile apart and the day was fine. Ryan agreed, though could not but reflect as they walked on what a change there was in his feelings—in his very self—since the last time he had traversed that well-trodden lane.

Mrs Millan greeted Ryan with all natural kindness and surprise, and with warm displeasure on hearing how she had been treated. "I knew there was something about the man I did not like," she declared more than once while they sat there. "I knew the spirits did not approve of him, and indeed I believe I said so at the time!"

Ryan had no memory of her having ever said this, but believed it would be less painful for him to remain quiet on that score. It was not that be could disagree with any of the aspersions which Mrs Millan now cast on the General's character. It was only that as he sat there, he could not help but wonder if Shane was even now packing for his trip to the north—if even now, Shane was thinking of him.

 

* * *

 

Ryan's disposition was not naturally sedentary, nor inclined to gloom, but his parents noticed with concern his distinct loss of spirits the next few days. They were inclined to mark it down to a return to normalcy after so many weeks spent moving in high society and living in grand homes, for though the Bergaras lived comfortably they could not make any pretensions to living in such a high style. More than once they had to chivvy Ryan a little, to remind him what he was about, but on Friday they both acquired some new information which made them inclined to rethink their previous diagnosis of their son's behaviour—and that was when they saw the look on Ryan's face when the housekeeper opened the parlour door and announced, "Mr Shane Madej." Ryan’s cheek glowed, his eyes brightened, and Mr and Mrs Bergara exchanged the kind of look which is all that people who have been married some five-and-twenty years need to communicate.

Mrs Bergara had suspected that there had been more to her son's trip than he had said. Here was proof positive of it: her eldest son as full of fidgets as she'd ever seen him, and this young man gripping his hat with white knuckles and looking at Ryan as if he'd hung the moon and set the stars in the sky. She asked Mr Madej if he had had a pleasant journey, and asked him again before he heard her. Mr Bergara asked Ryan to ring the bell for tea, and had to ask three times before he was attended to.

Mrs Bergara therefore suggested that perhaps, after his long trip, Mr Madej might welcome the chance at exercise—and that Ryan might be so good as to accompany him towards Mrs Millan's and back? Mr Madej would excuse her not accompanying them, but she had turned her ankle a little the other day.

This lie placidly given, the two set out, and perhaps can be forgiven for their incivility in not calling to see Mrs Millan. Instead, Ryan led the way to a small stand of woods nearby which would offer them some privacy, and scarcely had they gained it before Shane took Ryan's hands in his and said in a rush, "I could not do it. I could not go, not once I received your letter and... Ryan, will you have me—will you marry me? I have not been happy since you left, I love you too much to be content without you. Marry me?"

Ryan was overwhelmed, not expecting to have his hopes answered so explicitly as this. "But your father—"

Shane's lip curled in disgust. "He has lost any claims on my obedience or to my respect for his guidance. He has acted the fool and then dared to say it was for my own good. You cannot know how much I have reproached myself for thinking that filial duty should be put above all my happiness—above you."

So it was, in fits and starts, that Ryan learned that the offence that he had committed in the General's eyes was to be less rich than he had supposed. The General had taken notice of Shane's partiality for Ryan at Bath, and made inquiries about him, though from sources which were either unreliable or misunderstood on the General's part. Under the mistaken belief that Ryan was the lone heir to Mrs Millan, and she herself was vastly wealthy, the General had sought to encourage Shane's attentions—even to the point of making Shane himself feel uncomfortable—solicited Ryan's visit to Schaumburg, and destined him for his son-in-law. On discovering the error, to turn Ryan from the house at once had seemed a better plan than accepting the blow to his own pride. Better to cast a young man out into the world in unwarranted disgrace than admit that he had been mistaken in thinking him the future possessor of some fifty thousand pounds.

Ryan, on hearing this all, was left wide-eyed. To read of murders or wives confined to an attic was one thing in a novel; to hear of such cruelty in real life was another thing entire.

Shane, in having such things to relate of his own father, looked and surely felt truly miserable. He had at least the consolation of knowing that he had stood his ground against a parent whom he had long felt obliged to respect rather than justified in doing so. He had for many years thought his father's counsel narrow-minded and venal, but confrontation was an abhorrence to him. His feelings for Ryan, however, had pushed him to behave in as open and bold a manner as he ever had. He had steadfastly opposed his father's orders. His own honour, no less than the demands of his own heart, he said, required that he do so.

"We parted in distress, that cannot be denied, but I came here in hope. Ryan—"

"I can expect nothing more than a thousand pounds in the four percents, you know," Ryan said in a tremulous voice. "But if you'll have me despite that—"

Ryan did not have quite as much time as he hoped for to savour the expression of joy that suffused Shane's face at his words—but since that was because Shane was kissing him with all the ardour that even the most demanding of heroes could wish for, he was soon reconciled to his fate.

 

* * *

 

Mr and Mrs Bergara's surprise on being applied to by Mr Madej for their consent to his marrying their son was perhaps not as considerable as Ryan had expected, but they made not a single objection as to the suitor's character. His gentle manners, good sense, and affection for their son were evident, and he could not be blamed for the defects of his father. The General had threatened to cut Shane off from the inheritance of Schaumburg, but the Bergaras could not reasonably be expected to feel the loss of even such a great estate when they had never laid eyes on it. Besides, Shane was, by marriage settlements, certain of an income which would allow him and Ryan to live independently, though not lavishly. They gave their blessing, the lease of a small house was secured in the neighbourhood of L——, and the banns were soon posted.

The General, as ever all too aware of how the eyes of the world were upon him, wrote a letter to Shane not long after the wedding in which he granted his formal approval of the match—or at least, as much approval as could be gleaned from the phrase, "be a damned fool if you like!"

"I'd much rather be a fool for you than as wise as Solomon," Shane murmured to Ryan within the comfort of their own bed—and who could blame Ryan for kissing him then, and often?

The passage of a twelvemonth was enough to reconcile the General more truly to Shane and Ryan's union, particularly when he grew to realise how quiet the abbey was in their absence, and to understand that continued hostility might deprive him of the chance of knowing his own grandchildren. An invitation was made and eventually, after some discussion on the part of the spouses, accepted.

On the morning that they set out for Schaumburg Abbey, many of their neighbours turned out to wish them well. Mrs Millan was among them, and she embraced Ryan tightly, her eyes bright with tears. "My dear, did I not promise you? Did I not say? The spirits have long predicted the best and happiest of futures for you!"

And as the carriage pulled away, with Ryan's hand clasped tightly in Shane's, he could well believe that.


End file.
